Trainer confessions part 1 full#
As you can imagine my life is and was full of movement. I have then discovered marathons and triathlons and yoga and hiking as well as swimming in the pool and gym workouts.
I have started running in my early 20s and pursued long-distance running in form of ultramarathons. I was always used to doing whatever I want, whenever I want, for however long I want. When I became a mom the reality of another human being completely attached to me at all times was overwhelming. You may be a busy mom, and nurse, a doctor, a business owner who works long hours or a single mom who is a runner or a health enthusiast oh you’re simply trying to take care of yourself when you’re not working or taking care of your family. I didn’t know how I was going to make it as a single mom, but I sure as hell wanted that baby more than anything. It was a mental release in some ways more than staying fit. My pace would get slower and slower but I didn’t give up. I jogged on a path near an apartment complex in North county where I lived alone with my chihuahua. “Your baby will be depressed if you run pregnant, “- a kind passer by. The advice was plentiful and not very useful for the most part, and simply disrespectful and harmful in some other ways. Yoga was my life saver and I attended many classes, while also getting the “look” from most of the instructors, cautious advice from gym goes that I should be not doing this or doing that. I followed my vegan plant based diet almost my entire pregnancy and even raced a local 5km run and won my age group at 16 weeks.
I didn’t gain much weight during pregnancy, working “on the floor” as an RN at a nursing home until nearly the last day and running every day with my ever expanding belly. I was one of those women who got stink eyed. She resides in the tiny house near a once quant Leucadia beach spot- now an unaffordable surfing mecca with old geezers in vans who likely have million dollar homes yet their looks resemble a mixture of garden gnomes and homeless dudes downtown San Diego. “ Because we are Russian, of course we have an iron in the house”, – heavy accent echoing in my head as I blow past green highway signs to find my friend’s K house whose children are my age. “professional” clothes in a closet filled with scrubs and running shorts, dug up an iron that my mother bought me. Jetting down I5 with my one month old blowing bubbles in the back seat, resume in a diaper bag that I just printed at the library for free, pads in sports bra to avoid any accidental leaks.
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